


i'm screaming at the past but it's laughing at me

by ivyalexandrias



Series: the most remarkable thing about coming home to you [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Desolation Avatar Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), First Kiss, Gen, OKAY normal tags out of the way., Post-Season/Series 03, Post-The Unknowing (The Magnus Archives), Reunions, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, also theres a TINY bit of stranger!tim in this, but only because he stole some of nikolas limbs, mentions of the church of the lightless flame and the circus of the other, nikola orsinov and the magic mannequins, no beta we die like peter lukas, not enough to actually tag it, not explicitly mentioned but is IS their first kiss lads!, not!sasha and nikola are only mentioned sorry folks, she's not a full avatar but she's been marked!, spiral sasha (kind of), that., thats what its called right? circus of the other?, the dasira and jonmartin are BARELY there btw sorry lads, this is set about three months after the unknowing fyi, title from taking back the night by mother mother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27387217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyalexandrias/pseuds/ivyalexandrias
Summary: “I’ve started trying to find Sasha, you know? Orsinov, she survived for a little while after the blast. She thought I was actually dying, so the last thing she told me was that uh- that Sasha was still alive, still out there. The real Sasha. She’s trapped in the Stranger’s realm, sure, but she’s alive. I think she meant it as a taunt, a sort of last jab at me, before I died. I almost wish she had a face, if only so I could see her expression when I crawled out of that rubble, and melted her fucking skull in my hands.” Tim chuckles to himself, the sound dark and foreign, even to his own ears.orTim is going to take back what he lost, even if it means burning the world down around him.
Relationships: Basira Hussain & Tim Stoker, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/ Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Oliver Banks/Graham Folger, Sasha James/Tim Stoker, but like the olivergraham is only mentioned
Series: the most remarkable thing about coming home to you [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007502
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33





	1. the crow offers me a smoke

**Author's Note:**

> [you are not immune to propaganda garfield meme but it says "i am not immune to desolation!tim"]  
> *hands you this* here take it i dont want to look at it any more. i have been revising it for a week straight. help me.
> 
> (i PROMISE i will update my jonmichael fic soon. i have half of a chapter written out i just have writers block. im SORRY,,,,,)

Tim chews on his lower lip, ignoring the way the brick scorches underneath his hands as he curls his fingers around the corner of a building, watching Martin as he walks down the street. The younger man has a small bouquet of flowers clutched in his hands, like he does every week.

Once he's a suitable distance away, Tim starts after him, careful not to brush against anyone else on the street as he weaves through them. He has the route to the hospital memorized by now, but he still likes to follow someone there. He knows the routine, someone visits Jon a few days a week. They all stay for different, but mostly consistent amounts of time. That means he can time it right so no one catches him in Jon's room, which... wouldn't be ideal. 

Once Martin enters the hospital, Tim slips into a nearby alley, leaning against the wall while he waits. There's not much else he can do but wait, these days. In between hunting down any remaining members of the Circus, and avoiding the Church of the Lightless Flame, most of his days are spent lounging around in his barren apartment, or following his coworkers to make sure nothing gets to them while they're away from the institute. Following the ones that are left, at least. 

He stares down at his hands, and in the midday light filtering in from above, he swears he can see smoke rise from his fingers, mingling with the dust in the air. He sighs, running a hand through his hair, jet black strands flopping down in front of his eyes.

That was one of the first things he'd noticed, when he woke up on the charred floor of what used to be the Circus. His hair had turned from a sandy blonde to a charcoal black. He'd considered dying it, but he figured that hair dye and hands hot enough to melt plastic in seconds were  not  a good mixture, so he just accepted it.

-

Eventually, Martin emerges from the hospital doors again, no longer holding the flowers. Tim watches him walk down the sidewalk until he disappears around the corner, then waits an extra five minutes for good measure. Once he was sure the other man was gone, he stepped out of the alley, speed walking towards the doors of the hospital. He makes sure not to brush against anyone else as he does so, knowing that the unnatural heat that radiates off him tends to raise alarm bells. He ignores the way the door handle warps slightly in his grip as he tugs the door open, slipping inside. 

He waits until a small group of people head in the direction of Jon’s room, blending into them until they pass the door he’s looking for, breaking off from the group and slipping into the room Jon’s been in for the past three months. Martin’s flowers sit in a small vase on the table next to his bed, their cloying scent already starting to permeate the room. Tim wrinkles his nose, though he resists the temptation to burn them. He finds himself resisting that temptation a lot, recently. 

He stands next to Jon’s bed, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. Jon’s chest is still, his form completely devoid of life. The only indication that he’s anything other than a lifeless corpse is the array of monitors monitoring his brain activity. Tim sighs, watching Jon for a long moment, before finally speaking.

“Is this what you felt like? Watching yourself become a monster, being helpless to stop it? Because if it is, I think… I think I can understand you a little better. I still don’t forgive you, of course. You did a  lot  of shit, Jon. You fucked us over a lot, but… I think I get why, now.” Jon doesn’t respond, obviously. Not that Tim was expecting him to, but whatever. He sighs, and gives into his urges, plucking a leaf from one of the flowers sitting on the bedside tray, watching it smoulder and smoke in his hand, dissolving to ash within seconds. 

“You know, I think you had it better than I do. I mean, at least you could  touch  people, and not have to worry about fucking burning them to death. At least you have friends who care about you, who come to see you every day. Everyone I knew is either dead, or thinks  I’m  dead, and I’m pretty sure they’d hate me if they saw me again. I mean, I blew us all up, that’s not exactly something one forgives. Oh, Tim, remember that time you blew up a building with us inside? Oh, yeah, good times. Anyways, wanna go out for drinks? It just doesn’t happen.” He’s silent for a long moment, shifting in place.

“I’ve started trying to find Sasha, you know? Orsinov, she survived for a little while after the blast. She thought I was actually dying, so the last thing she told me was that uh- that Sasha was still alive, still out there. The  real  Sasha. She’s trapped in the Stranger’s realm, sure, but she’s  alive . I think she meant it as a taunt, a sort of last jab at me, before I died. I almost wish she had a face, if only so I could see her expression when I crawled out of that rubble, and melted her fucking skull in my hands.” Tim chuckles to himself, the sound dark and foreign, even to his own ears. 

“I stole parts of her, you know? Even becoming… whatever I am, it wasn’t enough to replace the limbs I lost. Most of my right arm, my left leg, a couple parts of my torso. There wasn’t enough of me left to fill it all in, so I dragged myself out of that rubble, and I took her apart as she lay there dying, and I made her my own. A last ‘fuck you’, I suppose.” He scuffs his boot against the linoleum, dark leather dully reflecting the fluorescent hospital lights. Silence reigns over the two of them for a long moment, before there’s a gasp, and the sound of plastic hitting the floor and shattering.    
  


Tim turns, eyes going wide as he’s met with the sight of Martin, mouth hanging open in surprise. The remains of a tape recorder are scattered around his feet, and Tim finally notices the coat hanging over the foot of Jon’s bed, presumably what Martin had come back to retrieve. He silently curses himself for being so stupid. After everything he does to make sure the others never see him, he fails to notice that Martin had left something, and would be coming back for it. Idiot.

Martin gapes like a fish out of water, and Tim takes advantage of his momentary shock, brushing past him into the hallway, all but sprinting away. He hears Martin call after him, but he’s already turning a corner. He doesn’t stop until he finds a back door, slipping out of it, and into the cool early evening air. He heaves in air, bracing himself on the concrete wall, the plastic of his right hand clicking against the surface, incongruent with it’s waxy smooth appearance. Tiny plumes of smoke puff from his mouth as he breathes hard, sliding down to the floor. 

Tim’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice when the door swings open. Shoes click across the pavement until they come to a stop in front of him, plain flats almost connecting with the toes of his scuffed combat boots. The woman crouches in front of him, frowning.

“Sir, are you okay?” Her eyes are concerned, and she reaches out a hand to grab his shoulder. He immediately jerks back, awkwardly scrambling to his feet. She stands with him, cocking her head at his reaction. She reaches for him again, presumably to grab his arm, mabe lead him somewhere, but he shoves her back quickly. His hand connects with her nametag, clacking oddly. She seems to notice the heat radiating off of him, or maybe it’s the way his eyes smoulder like embers, oranges and reds colliding in his irises. Maybe it’s the smoke subtly curling off of his skin, illuminated in the pale sunlight. Whatever it is, she stiffens, backing away from him slowly.

Tim mirrors her movements, keeping his hands at his sides. He opens his mouth to speak, maybe to apologize, but she turns on her heel and speedwalks back into the hospital before he can. It’s for the best, he supposes. It’s kind of hard to explain to someone that you don’t want to hurt them when you look like he does.

-

Tim relishes the screams of the mannequin as it’s plastic “flesh” melts away beneath his hands. He makes sure not to kill it, though. He still has questions for it, no matter how much he wants to watch it die right then and there. So, when he’s satisfied with it’s handiwork, he sets what's left of the creature down on the dingy warehouse floor, crouching in front of it.

"Where are they." His voice is flat, and unimpressed. The mannequin doesn't respond, and he reaches out a hand, brushing it along it's cheek. Plastic bubbles and melts, drawing another distorted scream from the creature, despite its smooth, blank face showing no emotion. 

"The people that get taken, that get replaced.  Where are they? " He all but snarls it, not removing his hand from the mannequin's face, until it finally relents.

"I'll tell you, I'll tell you!" It's voice wavers, coming out strained, but that might be the fact that it's throat is partially melted, a hand shaped splotch of melted, burnt plastic. Tim thinks it's rather beautiful, if he's being honest.

"They're in an aspect of the Stranger's realm. It's almost impossible to get there without being, how did you put it,  replaced . Even more impossible to get out again." Tim tightens his grip on the mannequin's face, plastic cracking under his fingers.

" But ?" The creature squirms, wailing at the pressure. The sound pierces Tim’s ears, loud enough that he doesn’t hear the sound of the door to the old shop opening behind him. He doesn’t let up on the pressure until it starts speaking again.

“But! There's an entrance. It’s just a shortcut, somewhere to lure in teens, a little extra source of fear. It-it’s in Russia. Luna Park. It was an old amusement park before it was shut down. Now it’s a way to lure teens in, an- an extra trickle of fear that’s always being fed. ” Tim files that away for later. He nods slowly, a smile creeping across his face.

“Thank you.” He says, before standing up, and crushing the mannequin’s head under the heel of his boot. There’s a snap, and the crunch of plastic, then the slow trickle of black blood, staining his shoe slightly. He wrinkles his nose, doing his best to wipe it off on the floor. He goes to turn around and head out, but before he can, there’s a soft  click , and the sensation of cool metal against the back of his head. 

Tim freezes, hands twitching at his sides. For a long moment, there’s silence, before Basira’s voice rings out from behind him. “Who are you, and why do you look like Tim.”

He laughs, spinning around to face her, now unphased by the gun pointed at him. Her grey eyes are wide, searching his face. She seems to take in several things at once, tiny details piling together to paint a picture that is entirely inhuman, and she takes a step back.

“I don’t  look  like Tim, Basira. I am Tim. Or, whatever’s left of him, I suppose. Part of me is Orsinov, part of me is wax. The only part that’s the same is my mind, really. Same memories, same feelings, same everything, you know?” Basira shakes her head slowly, eyes flicking between the scorched pile of plastic behind him, and his face, which he keeps carefully neutral.

“You blew yourself up to stop the Unknowing,” She says finally. “I suppose that’s enough reason for you to be claimed by the Desolation. You certainly act the part.” She jerks her gun towards the remains of the mannequin behind him, and Tim goes stiff.

“Do not say that. I am  nothing  like those fuckers. I’m hunting down the bastards that hurt my brother, and Sasha, nothing else. If I hurt them, it’s because they deserve it, not because I’m some sick sadist who gets off on destroying people’s lives. Got it?” Basira’s finger twitches on the trigger, and she nods carefully. 

“Understood.” Tim nods back at her, adjusting his jacket.

“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to find a way to get to Russia without getting on a plane. I’d rather not explain that I’m made of wax and plastic to Customs.” Basira cocks her head at that, expression considering.

“Plastic? Isn’t that more the Stranger’s lot, rather than the Desolation?” Tim chuckles, rapping his knuckles against a nearby table. They echo dully, the sound standing out in the thick silence of the shop.

“Yeah, it is. I took Orsinov apart as she died, and I replaced my own missing limbs with hers. Even the Desolation can’t replace body parts, you know?” Basira’s still pointing the gun at him, and he brings a hand up, gently pushing it to the side, so it’s no longer pointing at him. At the motion, Basira seems to realize she’d still been pointing at him, and puts it back in it’s holster. She’s quiet for a long moment, considering. Finally, she nods quietly at him.

“I can get you a ride to Russia.” Tim blinks, startled by that, but judging from her expression, she’s completely serious. He studies her face for a second, searching it for any sign of a drawback, of a  but , of a  only if you do this for me , but there is none. Just a… grim sort of understanding. He breaks into a smile, smoke curling from the corners of his lips.

“Basira, have I ever told you I loved you?” Basira sighs, already pulling out her phone.

“Unfortunately.” Tim cackles, clapping her on the shoulder with his plastic hand, the one that burns significantly cooler than the rest of him, but he still catches the way she flinches away from the heat, brows twitching.

“Tim, listen. You owe me for this, okay? I’m using up one of the only connections I have from when I was sectioned, and I’m agreeing not to tell the others about this. If you come back from this, you better expect me to call it in eventually, got it?” Tim nods, saluting her. There it is. He would’ve honestly been disappointed if she  didn’t  say something like that.

“Aye aye, captain!” She rolls her eyes, typing out a number into her phone. It rings, and rings, and eventually goes to voicemail. She sighs, muttering something to herself, before leaving a message.

“Lukas, it’s me. I’m calling in a favor. I have a… friend,” Tim pumps his fist at that, and she silently flips him off. “Who needs transportation.  Discreet transportation. He’ll be at the docks this Thursday, before you leave.” She hangs up, putting her phone back in her pocket.

“London Gateway, this Thursday, 6am. The ship is the Tundra. Don’t speak to any officials, don’t speak to the crew members. You’ll know Lukas when you see him. The trip’ll probably be about two weeks.” She stands from where she’s leaned against a nearby table, putting her phone back in her pocket.

“Don’t say a word about this to anyone, Stoker. I’m not doing you any more favors. I won’t tell the other’s you’re… not dead, but that’s just because I want you to be the one to do it, when you’re done with whatever bullshit quest you’re on, got it?” Tim nods solemnly, saluting her.

“Got it, Ms. Hussain. My lips are sealed.” He pauses, sobering. “And… thank you, Basira. Really.”   
  
“Whatever.”

-

Tim leans against a shipping container, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. The smoke from it mingles with the natural smoke that drifts off of him, curling up into the early morning air. He scans the ships absently, keeping one eye on the Tundra, sitting inconspicuously near the edge of the dock, a nearly imperceptible fog curling around it, visible in the light of the sun as it peeks above the horizon.

He hears footsteps behind him, and spins, ready for a fight if necessary. Instead, he’s met with the most stereotypical boat captain he’s ever seen in his life. He relaxes marginally, but even  he  can’t ignore the fog subtly curling and twisting around the older man. A sure sign of the Lonely.

Good thing Tim’s been alone for months, then. He nods at the man, who nods back, raising a hand in greeting.

“Ah, you must be Ms. Hussain’s… ‘friend’?” Tim nods, hands shoved in his pockets, doing his best to keep his expression neutral. He knows enough about people like this to understand that showing emotion is a dangerous thing. Anything you do can be used against you, so you have to learn to do as little as possible.

“Yes. The name’s Tim Stoker, nice to meet you, sir.” The captain laughs at that, gesturing for him to follow. Tim obliges, scanning the docks absently as they approach the Tundra. The fog surrounding it is clearer as they get closer, light grey standing out against the blue of the ship's hull.

“Stoker, huh? I guess it takes more than an explosion to get rid of you, then. And please, call me Peter.” The older man smiles at him, but there’s no warmth behind it. Just a violent sort of emptiness. Tim returns the smile, pouring as much hate and fire into it as he can. Two can play at that game. Peter’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and he turns, continuing to walk. A quiet sort of submission. Tim ignores the pride that unfurls in his chest at that.

The ship is overwhelmingly quiet, Tim notices. The crew members peek at him from around corners, watching him with curious expressions, but he heeds Basira’s instructions, and ignores them completely. The Lonely blankets all of them like a thick layer of dust, drifting towards him and trying to coil around his limbs, to drag him down. It dissipates before it can ever make contact, though, the tangled pit of anger that seems to constantly burn in his chest boiling it away, keeping his mind clear. If Peter notices, he doesn’t say anything.

As soon as his feet had touched the deck, Peter had all but disappeared, leaving Tim to his own devices. He shrugs to himself, walking over to the railing, and leaning against it. The morning dew condensed on the cool metal sizzles into steam where he touches it. Water laps peacefully against the side of the boat, and Tim relishes the breeze that ruffles his hair slightly. 

The metal of the ship is thick, solid steel, strong enough that he can touch it,  really  touch it, without worrying about warping it out of shape. It's an unfamiliar feeling, not having to concentrate on taming the heat bubbling through his veins. He enjoys it, honestly. He's finally able to let the fire that sits below his skin free, and the corner of his lip quirks up when he notices the air warping slightly around him, rippling with heat. 

After some time, the boat lurches, and Tim recognizes the low rumble of an engine coming to life. As he watches, the port slowly grows farther away. He sighs, watching the shoreline shrink into the distance. In the back of his mind, he worries slightly, wondering if he's made a mistake, if the Lonely will claim him before he gets to his destination, but he brushes it aside. 

Carefully, meticulously, he replaces the thought with images of his friend's faces. Martin, blushing a bright red as he teases him about his crush on Jon. Basira, flipping him off as he takes a picture, careful not to disturb a sleeping Daisy, who's sprawled across her lap. Sasha, the  real  Sasha, grinning at the camera, arms slung around his and Martin's shoulders. (He'd found an old Polaroid of him, Martin, and her, days before the Unknowing. It had been hidden in a corner of her desk, underneath some files. It had been in his pocket when he'd set off the explosion, and it's the one thing he regrets not leaving behind). Jon, eyes wide and pleading, mouth open in shock as Tim pulls the trigger, and brings the Circus down on top of them. 

He's doing this for them, he reminds himself. He might be alone, but he sure as hell isn't Lonely.


	2. those black and screaming skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss is not perfect in any way, they’re both smiling too hard to make anything good out of it, but it doesn’t matter to her. All that matters is the heat that radiates off of Tim seeping into her bones, and the way his hand comes up to cup her cheek. The plastic of his right hand is cool against her skin, even as his other hand burns almost too hot to touch against the small of her back. 
> 
> He pulls back, but doesn't go far, choosing instead to rest his forehead against hers. She sobs wetly, bringing her hands up to cup his face, drinking in every detail. His eyes are the color of hot embers, reds and oranges and yellows clashing in his irises, contrasting sharply against the jet black of his hair. She wants nothing more than to map every inch of him, every new scar and old blemish, everything that's faded from the forefront of her memory, but she can't, because Graham and Rose are still there, watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grrrr im not happy w this chapter but i couldnt figure out how to make it better and i wony be able to focus on looking glass till im done w this

Sasha paces back and forth incessantly, unable to sit still. Even after what she’s pretty sure has been over a year trapped in what is, as far as she can tell, a twisted version of a carnival, she still occasionally gets bursts of energy, motivation to escape. It never works out, because of course it doesn’t. Now matter how far she walks, the world eventually warps, and bends, then she ends up back where she started.

Graham sits cross legged on an awning he stole from one of the stalls, which had been folded up into something resembling a mattress. It’s thick, and uncomfortable, but it’s better than the hard ground. He’s quiet, humming softly to himself as he sketches something in his notebook, though the tune of the song is drowned out by the calliope music that seems to play endlessly in the background. She’s learned to tune it out for the most part, but sometimes, when they’re all silent, it works its way into her skull like a disease, echoing around in her mind.

When she'd first arrived at the Carnival, clothes dusty, shoes smeared with worm guts, tears of surprise and fear tracking down her face, she'd almost collapsed where she stood. It was as if one second she'd been in artifact storage, the next, she was standing in the middle of a brightly lit pathway, artificial lights shining in her eyes. 

Rose had found her first, crumpled to the ground, hands fisted in her skirt as her whole form shook with sobs. The older woman had gently placed a hand on Sasha’s shoulder, staying strong even when Sasha lashed out blindly at her. Eventually, she'd cried herself out, and allowed herself to be led to a funhouse near the edge of the Carnival.

As Rose explained to her, several of the people who had been taken had started using the building as a house of sorts. The mirrors had all been torn off the walls, and Graham had stolen some strings of lights to illuminate the inside. All things considered, it was actually rather cozy. 

One thing Sasha noticed, though, was that no one seemed to  _ care _ . They were all seemingly resigned to their fate, perfectly okay with staying in the hellish Carnival they'd been trapped in. Sasha, on the other hand, threw her whole being into escaping. She spent weeks trying to map out the Carnival, scribbling down every sharp turn and looping, abstract pathway, but to no avail. (Graham lent her some paper, as well as some charcoal he'd made, giving her a sympathetic smile. He'd told her there was no way out, and that he'd tried to find one too, but she didn't listen.)

Eventually, though, she gave up. Not completely, she still did her best to map out the Carnival, and she never stopped searching for an exit, but for the most part, she just… resigned herself to her fate. It wasn’t  _ that  _ bad, really. Her and Graham became friends pretty quickly, and Rose had essentially become a surrogate mom for the rest of them.

Despite the moments of reprieve, the Carnival was still a dangerous place. Sasha's first  _ real  _ reminder of this came about a month after she'd arrived. The cuts and bruises scattered across her skin from Prentiss' attack had begun to fade, and she'd started to explore a bit more. She'd been on the second floor of the funhouse when she'd found it. A large, splotchy bloodstain, covering most of the carpet inside a room that had been barricaded shut.

She’d backed away, one hand over her mouth. The blood definitely wasn’t fresh, but it was  _ all over the place.  _ She'd turned, colliding with Graham, who caught her by the arms. His gaze flicked behind her, and he'd winced.

"Carl… didn't take being trapped here as well as most of us have. I'm not even sure where he got the knife from, but… it's hard to stop arterial bleeding when you don't have anything better than a sweatshirt." He'd quietly shut the door, guiding a still alarmed Sasha back downstairs. 

She didn't go back to that room, but she tried to spare Carl a thought every once in a while, even though she'd never known him personally. She wouldn't want to be forgotten, even if the people she cared about had already lost any memories of her. 

Most of her time was spent trying to map the endless, hellish turns of the Carnival, or talking to Graham and Rose. Graham told her about his boyfriend, Oliver, and that he regretted leaving when Oliver needed him. They'd apparently been going through a rough patch, and he'd left when Oliver grew distant. Sasha did her best to comfort him, quickly finding that prompting him to tell her a story from when they were still together was a good way to cheer him up.

Rose, on the other hand, always seemed to know how to cheer  _ her  _ up. On the days Sasha could barely bring herself to get up, and everything seemed pointless, the older woman would come sit next to her, speaking to her in gentle tones. She'd tell Sasha stories of her research, or from when she lived in Italy with her husband. She listened patiently when Sasha ranted about her old job at the Institute, or the circumstances that brought her there. ("That damn yellow door was  _ right  _ there! If- if I'd taken it, maybe I'd be there, with Tim, and Martin, and Jon! Maybe I'd still be alive right now.")

The three of them found a comfortable rhythm, weaving around each other like threads on a loom. Sasha watched people arrive, eyes wide and panicked, and she watched them leave, enveloped in the cold, uncaring arms of the Carnival. It took her a long time to find out that the Carnival refused to claim her too. It took even longer for her to figure out why.

-

"Come  _ on _ ! I'm here, I'm giving up! Fucking  _ take me, already _ !" Sasha paces in a circle, arms spread wide as she scans the empty stalls surrounding her, near-blinded by the bright lights. The Carnival doesn't respond, and she remains where she is, untouched. She sobs, a broken, angry sound, falling to her knees in the dirt. Her skirt is already stained with dust, and charcoal, and specks of blood, so the new smudges don't bother her at all. 

She drives her fist into the dirt weakly, another sob bubbling out of her throat, tumbling from her lips like a twisted prayer. Her surroundings are cold, and uncaring, ignoring her pleas. For a long, horrible moment, there is nothing but the hellish calliope that always echoes in the distance, along with her cries. Then, she hears a door opening.

The sound is so faint that she almost brushes it off as a hallucination, until a hand grips her chin, tilting her head up. She allows it, and meets a familiar, unknowable gaze. The creature that stares down at her is not Michael, but the pity and amusement mixing together on it's expression is all too familiar. It's grin is too wide, and if Sasha looks too long at it, she starts to see double. When it speaks, it tastes like soap bubbles, and the sound makes her teeth hurt.

"So you are the one Michael was so interested in. I saw glimpses of you through his doors, when I was still Helen Richardson, and Michael had yet to be torn from the Distortion like an insect is torn limb from limb like a curious child." Sasha stares up at the creature (Helen?), fear replaced with curiosity.

"Are you… here to kill me, then?" Helen shakes her head, laughing brightly.

"Why are you so determined to die, assistant?" Her laugh echoes in her mind, pounding at the back of her skull, worse than any migraine she's ever had. And she's had a  _ lot  _ of migraines recently. "Do you not want to escape this place anymore? A shame, really. You were so determined." Sasha glares up at her, ignoring the sharp press of her fingers at the base of her neck.

"There's no way out of here. I've searched, and searched, and  _ searched. _ I have mapped every inch of this place that I could find, and there is  _ nothing _ . The exit is always  _ just  _ out of sight,  _ just  _ far enough away that you can't clearly make it out. I can't create a map, because every time I do, something changes. I can't go to the exit, because when I try, I lose days at a time trying to get back to Graham and Rose. It's fucking impossible." She laughs again, and this time it tastes like burnt rubber, and she feels it shudder up her spine like electricity.

"Nothing is impossible, little assistant. My very existence is contradictory to the nature of It Is Not What It Is, yet here I am, very much alive. Or, alive as one can be, I suppose. And you are alive too! You and your friends, you're as impossible as anything. Crumbs surviving in the maw of a great beast that wants nothing more but to devour you." Helen releases her chin, and she lets it fall again. She offers Sasha a hand, and she hesitantly takes it, letting herself be tugged to her feet. 

"Thank you for the… weird pep talk, Helen, but you still haven't told me why you're here, if not to kill me." Helen laughs again, revealing sharp teeth lining her mouth like a shark before her features shift again, and Sasha takes a subtle step back.

"I simply wanted to tell you that your friend would be very disappointed if he arrived here to find you had succumbed to the Stranger!" Helen tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and Sasha winces at the odd texture of her hand, and the feeling of the sharp edge brushing against her cheek. 

It isn't until Helen disappears back through her door that the weight of her statement sinks in, and Sasha's eyes go wide. "W-wait! Helen! My friend!? You mean someone's coming for me?" She looks around frantically, but the familiar yellow door is nowhere to be seen, and Sasha suspects that it had never existed in the first place.

When she gets back to the funhouse, Graham points out that a section of her hair has turned white, and shimmers with colors she can't even begin to name, and Sasha sighs. It matches the oil-slick scar that sits on her shoulder, a reminder of Michael digging into her shoulder with too sharp fingers, drawing out a still squirming worm. She shudders at the memory, waving off Graham when he questions her about it. 

Rose just gives her a knowing look, already having been told the origin of the mark on her shoulder, and Sasha gives her a small smile. She resolves not to tell the others that someone is coming for her. She doesn't want to give them false hope. Not yet.

-

It's months more before she is reminded of Helen's words. She's still pacing when she hears Rose's familiar intonation from nearby, accompanied by another, new voice.

"Listen, I'm telling you, and you aren't  _ listening _ . I didn't get taken, I'm here for someone. My friend, Sasha, is she here?" Rose says something unintelligible, but Sasha doesn't even care about trying to figure it out. Her eyes are wide, and Graham glances up, catching her expression.

"You good, Sash?" He cocks his head, and she nods, blinking quickly. Rose's voice grows closer, as does the other person's. But suddenly it's  _ not  _ just any random person, because she  _ knows  _ them, and they know her, and that's all that matters in that moment, because that's  _ Tim's  _ voice, and Tim is here for her, and-

Sasha freezes in place, hand flying up to her mouth as she meets Tim’s gaze from across the room. Everything else seems to melt away, Graham and Rose’s questioning looks, both of them obviously confused by Sasha's reaction to someone who, to them, is a total stranger. Even the distorted calliope music that always echoes in the back of her mind fades, until there is nothing but Tim. His eyes are wide and searching, and it only takes her a moment before she’s flinging herself forwards with a broken noise.

The kiss is not perfect in any way, they’re both smiling too hard to make anything good out of it, but it doesn’t matter to her. All that matters is the heat that radiates off of Tim seeping into her bones, and the way his hand comes up to cup her cheek. The plastic of his right hand is cool against her skin, even as his other hand burns almost too hot to touch against the small of her back. 

He pulls back, but doesn't go far, choosing instead to rest his forehead against hers. She sobs wetly, bringing her hands up to cup his face, drinking in every detail. His eyes are the color of hot embers, reds and oranges and yellows clashing in his irises, contrasting sharply against the jet black of his hair. She wants nothing more than to map every inch of him, every new scar and old blemish, everything that's faded from the forefront of her memory, but she  _ can't _ , because Graham and Rose are still there, watching.

Reluctantly, she pulls away, instead slipping her hand into his, relishing the way he squeezes it gently, the plastic practically frigid compared to the rest of him. Graham looks like he has absolutely no idea what's going on, which, fair, while Rose is looking at her with a small, conspiratorial smile.

"Tim," Sasha begins, squeezing his hand back. "Would you, ah- mind telling us  _ how _ , exactly, you got here?" Tim nods, and the smile that plays across his lips is so familiar that it makes her heart ache. Tim sits down on the ground, and Sasha sits next to him for about 5 seconds, before giving in, and draping herself across his lap. He chuckles slightly, automatically moving to run his hands through her hair, and she hums contentedly.

Tim's voice is lilting and rough, and she feels the vibrations as he speaks. He explains what happened after she was… replaced, and she recognizes the sound of guilt in his voice when he says that he didn't even realize he was gone. She's not sure how to form the right words to tell him it's okay, so she just leans into his touch, offering him a gentle smile, and he returns it gratefully.

When he tells them about blowing up the Unknowing, Sasha physically jolts upright. He starts, hands withdrawing from her hair. 

"You're an idiot, Tim." She tells him decisively, before laying back down across his lap. Her matter of fact tone startles a laugh out of him, body shaking with the motion.

"Then I suppose I'm-" At that Graham cuts in, raising an eyebrow.

"Tim, you seem like a cool guy, but if you say you're 'her idiot', I'm going to come over there and personally throttle you to death. Sorry, I just- it's not allowed." Tim nods.

"Noted." After that, the low vibrations of his voice mix together with the exhaustion that had been piling on her the past few days, and she falls asleep within a couple of minutes. 

It's the first good night's sleep she's had in a long time.

-

When she comes to, it's to the sound of Graham and Rose talking quietly.

"Rose, are you  _ sure  _ you don't want to come with us? I mean, you finally have a chance to leave this place, why  _ wouldn't  _ you?" Graham sounds incredulous, and she can hear the telltale sound of him pacing, dirt scuffing beneath his boots. Rose, on the other hand, is surprisingly calm when she speaks.

"You two have lives to get back to, dear. I'm just some old lady. I'm sure my friends and family are dead by this point, and it's not as though anyone misses me. I'd rather stay here, honestly." Graham sighs, frustrated, and Sasha cracks an eye open. He notices, and gestures to her.

"Sash, help me out here. Rose says she wants to stay here, in the Carnival." Sasha shrugs faintly, blinking the sleep out of her eyes.

"Let her. If that's what she wants, who are we to stop her?" Graham groans, throwing a charcoal stick at her.

"You're no help, Sash." Rose laughs, sitting down. Graham sighs, apparently giving up, and instead coming over to crouch down next to her.

"By the way, while you were sleeping, Tim explained how we're getting out of here. He's got a sort of… lead set up? Like that Greek myth, where they tied the string to the lady, and guided her through the labyrinth. After that, his weird sailor friend is giving us a ride back to London."

"Peter is  _ not  _ my friend." Tim's voice comes from the doorway, and Sasha immediately perks up. She pushes herself into a sitting position. "The only reason he's helping me is because he owes Basira a favor. After that, I  _ hopefully  _ won't ever have to see him again."

"Sounds like some friendships I've had." Graham replies, and Sasha smiles to herself as the two start to bicker. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter!! one more chapter left!!! oh god oh fuck!!! also please comment on this please i am begging you it gives me so much serotonin please please pl

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr @elias-bouchards, and on twitter @gerrykeays! feel free to come yell with me about tma, or that archive 81 show i never shut up about.


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